“You must go now.”
I knew she was right; she was always right. But still I held on tighter.
“Come back to me,” I gasped into her ear.
“I will,” she vowed. “Wait for me.”
As we drew apart, Penelope’s lips grazed mine, just the ghost of a kiss. It was all we could afford beneath the eyes of Telemachus.
Numbly, I turned to walk away, my heart an open, bleeding wound in my chest. Telemachus reached out a hand to help me into the rowing boat.
“Please, look after her,” I said.
He bowed his head. “On my life, I will.”
All too suddenly, the sailor began to pull at the oars, and I was swept away into the night. I turned to look back at Penelope, a spark of panic bursting in my chest. She was smiling at me, nodding her encouragement as tears slipped down her face. Telemachus took her hand.
When we reached the ship, a ladder was thrown down. Slowly, I hauled myself up, each step feeling heavier than the last. As I reachedthe top, my body stiffened, my limbs refusing to move. I could not do it. I could not leave her. But then Skaris was there, helping me up on deck, with Hippodamia at my other side. I felt the warmth of their bodies pressing into mine, holding me together.
Once aboard, I staggered to the edge of the ship to see Penelope still standing on that tiny, decrepit harbor. She lifted a hand as the giant oars groaned to life, heaving us toward the endless, beckoning horizon.
I watched until she disappeared into the darkness, the girl who held every piece of my heart.
I will come for you.Her voice echoed through the starless night. A promise. A vow.
Wait for me.
Epilogue
The queen of Ithaca’s handmaids died that day.
That is what the poets shall say.
They will sing of the valiant hero Odysseus, who strung up the unarmed women.
They will delight in the gruesome details of how their feet danced as death squeezed its hand around their delicate, swanlike necks.
They will celebrate Odysseus’s triumph, how he single-handedly purged his palace of the rotten suitors and those treacherous slaves. So too will they celebrate his wife’s loyalty, admiring her steadfast devotion.
Everybody loves a good, obedient woman after all.
For the next fourteen years, people will rejoice in Odysseus’s mighty rule. They will not question the fact that he rarely leaves his chambers or speaks to anyone other than his closest confidants. Nobody will speak of the madness that has infected the king’s mind nor the years Penelope dedicates to trying to cure it. For war does not weaken men. No, it makes them valiant and glorious and heroic.Thatis the story people wish to be told.
When Odysseus is finally sent to the world below, people will call his death a “tragic accident.” It will be Telegonus who takes the king’s life, his illegitimate child by the witch Circe. Heralds will tell of how Odysseus mistook his ally for an enemy and was subsequently slainby the son he never had the chance to know. The stories will fail to mention that in those last years of his life, Odysseus seemed to mistake all allies for enemies.
Once Odysseus passes to the realm below, gossip will spread of the faithful Penelope fleeing to Aeaea. “Why Aeaea?” people will ask. What could there possibly be for her on the island of her late husband’s mistress?
Some will say it was Telegonus who took Penelope there, intent on marrying her. Never mind that Telegonus is the child of Penelope’s late husband or that Odysseus’s blood still freshly stained his hands. Some brows will be raised over the fact that Telegonus is younger than Penelope’s own son, but those details will ultimately be deemed unimportant. For Telegonus is a man and Penelope a widowed woman, and that is all the justification needed.
So when Penelope lives out the rest of her life on Aeaea, people will say it is for love. That part at least will be true.
But nobody will ever speak of who awaited Penelope on that isle, who had been waiting there for fourteen long summers. Those details will slip through the cracks of history, like a beautiful, forgotten dream.
***
A woman strides through crystal waters, the waves lapping at her feet.
Beyond her, across the expanse of golden, sunbaked sand, a figure stands, watching. Disbelieving.
